


Cleanliness is next to godliness

by Builder



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nausea, Sickfic, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 07:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17018787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Tony swallows, cringing at the bitter tang hanging at the back of his throat.  He can’t just lie here in bed playing taboo.  If Pepper was home, he might’ve rolled over and nuzzled his feverish face into the back of her neck and given in to being cared for.  He’d put up pretenses, of course, but he’d appreciate it.But his girlfriend is in Toronto, meeting with folks who still care about clean energy.  His fiancée, actually.  Soon-to-be-wife.  Geez, he’s self-centered.  He breathes through another wave of queasiness.  And he’s sick.





	Cleanliness is next to godliness

When Tony wakes, he has a plan in mind.  Even morning grogginess can’t keep him from pulling up a mental image of the arc reactor and associated tools strewn out over the lab bench three floors below.  

  
But it turns out vertigo can.  And that’s what he feels as soon as he sits up.    
If there was a mirror in the bedroom, Tony imagines he’d see the color drain from his face.  And maybe a few winking stars or twittering birds sailing around his ears.  He hastily drags his knees up to his chest and lowers his head, though it feels as though he’s tumbling forward in a string of perpetual somersaults.  

  
The cold outside of the quilt presses back against Tony’s forehead, sending goosebumps prickling up the back of his neck, which he realizes is damp with clammy sweat.  

“Shit,” he mutters.  All thoughts of engineering projects are replaced with a delicate seasick wondering of what the hell he ate last night and why it’s coming back to haunt him now.

  
He’ll probably feel better if he just gets it up.  He’s better in physics than biology or chemistry, but Tony knows about expelling toxins and bodily defense mechanisms.  For whatever reason, it’s a lot easier to grasp the concept when there’s alcohol involved.  He’s just Catholic enough to know about penance and paying for his sins.

  
“I didn’t fucking do anything,” Tony sighs.  He tries closing his eyes, but his body decides to forget which way is up, and he topples over sideways.  He grits his teeth as his head bounces off his pillow, then swallows bile and resolutely stares at the corner of his nightstand.  It’s a little dusty.  He should get the bots up here to clean.  Hopefully he doesn’t make any new messes in the meantime.

  
Tony takes a deep breath and tries to think of something calm.  Something like…the ocean.  No, that won’t do.  He feels terrible enough to get sick watching pond ripples.  He needs something still.  A swimming pool?  Ugh, that’s even worse.  He imagines fishing out chunks with a net and shocking away the rest with extra chlorine.

  
Tony swallows, cringing at the bitter tang hanging at the back of his throat.  He can’t just lie here in bed playing taboo.  If Pepper was home, he might’ve rolled over and nuzzled his feverish face into the back of her neck and given in to being cared for.  He’d put up pretenses, of course, but he’d appreciate it. 

   
But his girlfriend is in Toronto, meeting with folks who still care about clean energy.  His fiancée, actually.  Soon-to-be-wife.  Geez, he’s self-centered.  He breathes through another wave of queasiness.  And he’s sick.

  
The melancholy only makes him more uncomfortable, kicking the acid churning in his gut down a couple more points on the pH scale.  Tony can’t take it anymore.  He’s not going to do jumping jacks or stick his finger down his throat, though his scientific mind postulates that either would probably be pretty effective.  Maybe he’s a coward and a wuss, but he still braves the effort of sitting up again.  He pauses with his feet planted on the floor while he waits for the walls stop spinning, then shuffles toward the closet, shoulders hunched.

  
Tony doesn’t need a thermometer to know he’s running a temperature; the chill running up and down his backbone is proof enough.  He grabs a burgundy quilted robe from the hook on the back of the door and pulls it on, popping the collar for added comfort.  Tony’s probably worn it twice in as many years, favoring a mix of old MIT hoodies and high-tech athletic gear for the day-to-day.  

  
He feels shitty enough now to go full-on old man.  He’s just looking for a suitable distraction, not a fashion statement.  He’d rather be warm.  The heater down in the lab takes a while to kick on, which is annoying, especially today.  But a least it runs on clean energy.  


End file.
